


Clash

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [71]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Aging, Angst, Body Image, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fights, M/M, Makeup Sex, Married Life, Monogamy, POV Justin Taylor, Post-Series, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years of exclusivity, Justin has concerns that he'd like to address with Brian. Brian, however, doesn't think that there's anything to talk about. What was supposed to be a simple conversation quickly mutates into a clash between the two of them over their relationship's past, present, and future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clash

Their night is filled with comfortable silence, until suddenly, it isn't.

Justin can't pinpoint exactly when the discomfort begins; it seems to seep in slowly, then grows until it's out of control - larger than life, nagging at him, creeping under his skin, threatening to drain the oxygen from his lungs.

Why it begins is also somewhat of a mystery. Why tonight? Why now? It's like so many other late nights of theirs: Justin is lounging in bed next to Brian, who's glued to his laptop. At first, it was a perfectly pleasant way to while away the hours, but now the silence is taunting Justin. He can't concentrate on the book in front of him; it slowly fades away into a nonsensical blur of words. He becomes painfully conscious of the quiet filling their bedroom, offset only by mild sounds from outside: the occasional rush of late-night traffic below; neighbours' doors and windows opening and closing, creaking and clicking, sometimes slamming; the faint rustle of leaves falling from trees to skitter and scrape along the pavement. He glances down at himself, notices the way his stomach swells slightly, and suddenly wishes he were clothed.

The silence grows deafening. It fills him with distress, renders his breathing shallow.

They've been in bed since 8pm. Brian came home from the gym, they enjoyed a hard, fast fuck in the shower, and then they ate dinner in bed. The hours since have passed peacefully; Brian has been working away obsessively, Justin has sketched and read, and they've occasionally stolen away from all of that to enjoy brief smatterings of sex. 

Justin is slightly sore now but it's to his great pleasure. He loves the ache, the slight throb of it, a persistent reminder of Brian. He's known nothing else for three years now and he loves it.  _Loves_ it. He didn't expect to be so thrilled by it, but there's something deeply satisfying about belonging to Brian and Brian alone.

He has to wonder, though: _Does Brian feel the same way?_

They talk about it every once in a while and Brian always swears that he's happy, that it's working, that they should continue on with their monogamous lifestyle. Justin always agrees happily (ecstatically, even) and on they go.

But it's been some time since they've talked about it. Justin tries to place when their last conversation was and comes up empty. It was easily a year ago, possibly longer.

He glances at Brian, illuminated by the glow of his laptop, half-dressed from when he went out for a smoke half an hour or so ago. His shirt is open and his jeans are unbuttoned, which immediately ignites a fresh spark of arousal in Justin. He contemplates crawling into Brian's lap, pulling out his cock, stroking him to hardness, and then riding Brian until his doubts subside. Then he feels a shudder of self-consciousness: that's exactly what he did last night, and early on Thursday morning, and on Tuesday night too. It's not that there's not variety... but it's the same variety. Same settings, same scenarios, same toys, same games.

Same him.

Well, not even that. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and realises, with a sharp fright:  _I'm not who I used to be._ He stares at his changed exterior, touches it with curious hands... but no amount of exploration helps him to decide how he feels about it. Brian was right: aging is a bitch. Justin wishes he could bring his to a screeching halt, but no amount of wishing works. So here he's stuck, viewing his thirty-five-year old self with some strange blend of curiosity and contempt; dissonance and distaste.

What if Brian sees him the same way?

What if their monogamy has shifted into monotony?

Justin sets his book aside and curls onto his side so that he's facing Brian. "Hey."

Brian doesn't even look away from his laptop. "What's up?"

"Can we talk about our... arrangement?"

Brian sighs and asks, somewhat sharply, "Right now?"

"If that's okay." Justin reaches out and traces his finger over the dark-blue denim of Brian's jeans. "I just want to know if you're happy."

"I am. Are you?"

"Of course I am." Justin frowns, perplexed by the briefness of Brian's answer. "But when you say you're 'happy'-"

"Can you drop it already?"

He starts at Brian's harsh tone. "Drop what?"

"Uh," Brian laughs disbelievingly, "Your constant interrogations. I'm fucking fed up with it."

"Define 'constant'," Justin retorts. "We haven't talked about this in at least a year. And I'm not interrogating you. I'm trying to communicate with you."

Brian sighs and drags a hand through his hair. "About what, exactly? About how you seem to be convinced that I'm going to fuck all of this up?"

"No-"

"Because that's really fucking insulting."

Bewildered, Justin protests, "I'm not trying to insult you! I just want to-"

"There's nothing to talk about," Brian interjects stonily. "I'm happy. You're happy. What the hell else is there to say?"

"I'm glad you're taking this so seriously."

"There's nothing to take seriously! We've been exclusive for, what, three years? That's long enough that you should know that I'm okay with it."

"Maybe I don't want you to be 'okay' with it."

Justin cringes at the sight of hurt flashing in Brian's eyes. Then it warps into anger and he barks, "If you want to go and fuck other men, be my guest. I'm not going to stop you."

"That's not what I meant!" It comes out ensconced in frustration, but underneath all of that, all Justin feels is desperation. "I don't want to fuck other men. I love how things are. What I meant is that I want you to be more than 'okay' with it. I want you to be-"

"Happy?" Brian glares at him. "I already said that I was!"

"Yeah, which as always, I had to drag out of you!"

"Define 'drag'!" 

"You never say it on your own. It's only ever when I ask."

"Fucking hell," Brian spits scornfully, "I thought you'd outgrown your overly-literal stage where everything needed to be spelled out to you."

Wincing, Justin protests, "Maybe I need that sometimes. Is that so terrible? That maybe I want some verbal acknowledgement that you're pleased with how things are?"

"Fine," Brian says through clenched teeth. "From now on, I'll sing your praises all the livelong day. While we're at it, what the hell else do you want? A marching band? A military fucking salute?"

Justin leaps out of bed and starts getting dressed. As he tugs on his sweats, he laments, "Why are you always such an asshole?"

Brian scoffs. "If I'm always an asshole then why are you with me? Fuck off and find someone else if you're so goddamned bothered."

"I don't want to find someone else!"

"Great! Me neither. End of." Brian shakes his head and returns to staring at his laptop.

With anger welling within him, Justin storms over to the other side of the bed. He grabs Brian's laptop and shoves it aside. "No, not 'end of'."

"Give me my laptop," Brian seethes. "I have work that needs to get done."

"No. We need to talk about this."

"Talk about what?!"

"About our relationship!"

"Okay, let's talk." Brian pulls himself up so that he's sitting upright and folds his arms over his chest. "Let's talk about how fed up I am with you acting like I'm the problem here. You seem to be convinced that I'm going to wake up one day, balk at the idea that we're exclusive, and go and cheat on you!"

"That's not what I-"

"Then why are you constantly bringing this up? It's like you don't trust me, which is bullshit, by the way. I'm not ever going to cheat on you."

Justin's head starts to ache. How has this spiralled out of control so rapidly? Desperate to inject some calm into their conversation-turned-clash, he insists soothingly, "I know you wouldn't do that."

Brian stares out the east-facing windows and mutters darkly, "It takes one to know one, right?"

The words hit Justin like a pendulum: they knock him one way, and then they return to clobber him again. He can feel his hands trembling by his sides as he demands, "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

It's not supposed to serve as a question; it's supposed to serve as a warning: _Take it back or else._ Brian is clearly aware of that. His head snaps around and he pins Justin with a look that says:  _No fucking way._ Then he retorts cruelly, "It means that you're the one with the precedent."

"Fuck you," Justin says, breathlessly, because the pain is stealing the air from his lungs. "I can't believe you're throwing that back in my face after all this time."

"As long as we're dragging up ancient fucking history," Brian snarks. "Or are you not okay with that? You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

"I'm not dragging up-" Justin claws his fingers through his hair. "Goddamnit, I was just trying to have a conversation. I can see that's not going to happen."

He grabs his t-shirt and starts to stalk out of the room. He stops in his tracks when Brian drawls nastily, "Oh, good, leave. Walk out. You've always been pretty good at that, too!"

Justin whips around and stares at him, utterly incensed. He's clutching his t-shirt in his fist so hard that it feels like it might disintegrate between his fingers at any given moment.

"Fuck. You. Like I'm going to stand here and be insulted by you! I've been completely faithful to you for sixteen years and I haven't walked out since you threw that ridiculous tantrum over my painting." Justin scoffs at Brian's outraged expression and snaps, "What? You're the only one who gets to make nasty digs?  _You can dish it out, but you can't take it?"_

He sees Brian shaking his head and gearing up to fight back, but he's not having any of that. Justin talks right over the top of him, accusing, "So since we're dragging up ancient fucking history and making baseless accusations based on past wrongs, I guess if I walk out right now, you won't follow? Because it's not worth following anyone, is it, Brian? So you'll either sit here stewing or you'll go out tonight and fuck some other guy, right? Or - hey - maybe I'll come out of the guestroom later tonight and find you balls deep in some trick! Which is it going to be? I guess you'll go with whichever one is most effective at proving that you don't love me. I mean, you don't believe in love. You don't believe in any of what we have together. Right?"

Brian's responding glare is downright bone-chilling. He stares Justin down and challenges, "Why don't you get the fuck out? Then you'll find out that much sooner."

"Fuck you," Justin snaps, because having said it three times already hasn't felt sufficient.

He storms out of the bedroom, slams the door behind him, and ignores the sound of something thumping in the bedroom. He makes it all the way down the hall to the guestroom when it hits him:  _This is so fucking stupid._

He stares at the guestroom door and feels a twinge of discomfort. He can't spend the night in here. He can't let this fight drag out until dawn, or maybe longer.

It's such an idiotic argument, after all. What are they even fighting about? A mutual desire to remain monogamous? A fear that they're unhappy, when both of them know well enough that they are?

Justin glances down at his hand touching the doorknob. He snatches it away and takes a huge step back.  _No. No way. You're not doing this._

Then he turns around and comes face to face with Brian, who's leaning against the wall a few feet away with regret muddying his features. They stare at each other for a few moments in tension-laden, guilt-riddled silence.

Justin elects to break it. He smiles at Brian sheepishly and admits, "This may be the stupidest fight we've ever had."

Brian returns the smile and nods. "Agreed."

Relief floods through Justin. He decides that the fight needs to end just as quickly as it began. He can't bear to spare another second; he rushes into Brian's arms and kisses him passionately. Brian sweeps him up and slams him against the wall; it shudders under the impact, forcing the framed pictures to rattle slightly. Justin ignores it. He focuses on Brian's lips crushed against his, the taste of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue. He kisses him back with abandon, infusing it with apology.

When Brian comes up for air, he gasps, "I fucking love how things are."

He nuzzles Justin's neck, bites down on his shoulder, then hisses, "I love having you all to myself."

His mouth maps down Justin's torso, marking it with more kisses and bites, each more possessive than the last. "I love that you're all mine."

Justin groans as Brian kneels down and continues marking him. Every kiss feels like another apology; every bite feels like a claim. Justin knots his hands in Brian's hair and tugs. His hands scrunch tight as Brian's teeth scrape over his inner thigh. Brian grabs his hips, grasps fistfuls of Justin's sweats, then pulls them off without delay. He turns Justin around to face the wall in one sudden motion, slaps his ass, then growls, "I love pounding your gorgeous ass and filling you up with my come."

"I love that too. I love all of th-" A moan cuts through the words as two of Brian's fingers thrust bluntly inside him. "Fuck - more-" _  
_

Brian starts to add a third, then stops, pulls his hand away, bites Justin's hip and orders, "Stay there."

Justin obeys. He closes his eyes, folds his arms against the wall, and rests his forehead against them. He listens as Brian's footsteps retreat, his heartbeat accelerating with excitement. It speeds up all the more when Brian returns; alongside his footsteps is the  _click_ of a tube of lube being uncapped. He can feel Brian's breath warm against his neck, then his lips kissing his shoulders, then cool, slick fingers pressing into him.

"Fuck yourself on them," Brian says roughly. Once again, Justin obeys (albeit much more hastily this time). He pushes back, impaling himself on the length of three of Brian's fingers, loving how they reignite the ache within him. When Brian curls them slightly, initiating brief, teasing contact with Justin's prostate, Justin cries out. It's a garbled noise that can't be smoothed out, because Brian is curling his fingers again, and kissing Justin's neck, and sliding his other hand down Justin's back in a soft, soothing stroke.

"Get inside me," Justin says. It lands somewhere messy between a plea and a demand; either way, Brian complies. He pulls his fingers out, spanks Justin once more, then positions his cock at Justin's hole. Justin doesn't need to be told this time. He instantly thrusts back, taking Brian's cock deep, groaning rapturously as it splits him open.

Brian plasters one hand to Justin's left hip and cradles his ribcage with the other. His lips slide over the nape of Justin's neck in a haphazard kiss that doesn't seem to want to stop. He's quick to meet Justin's movements, delivering deep thrusts, each harder than the last.

Justin knows that he can't last. Being fucked like this always gets the best of him; the fact that they're making up only accelerates the process. He grabs his cock and tugs it in time with Brian's thrusts.

"Not yet," Brian warns, but Justin can't wait. He comes hard, spilling all over the wall, which he then has to fight not to slump against. He can still feel Brian's cock buried in him, hard, throbbing, but not moving.

Justin pushes back and grinds against Brian, urging softly, "Don't stop."

Brian groans and pulls out.

"I said-"

But Brian hushes him and grabs his hand. Justin finds himself led back into the bedroom, at which point Brian pushes him onto the mattress and mounts him. Justin stares up at him, entranced as Brian enters him again. He's thrilled to see fire flickering in Brian's eyes, loves the sight of his mouth falling open, can't get enough of the moans that pour out of it. He's sore from all the fucking but he wants it badly nonetheless: the way Brian fills him, the promise of Brian spilling inside him. And it's easier this way, on his back, on the bed, just like Brian must have known it would be. He's gentler now, moving slowly, tending to Justin with care as he fucks him. His kisses and caresses are delicate and soothing; they form perfect little apologies that Justin returns with ardour. 

"Love you," he whispers, the 'you' muffled as he presses a kiss to Brian's shoulder.

"Love you," Brian echoes, the words falling softly against Justin's neck. He punctuates them with kisses, sweet ones, ones that clearly spell out 'sorry'.

When Brian comes, Justin steals a kiss from him, swallowing the ecstatic cry that had been pouring out of his mouth. He kisses him with everything he's got, hoping that Brian can feel all the apologies  _(I'm so fucking sorry)_ and promises  _(I only want to be with you),_ just like he can feel Brian's cock pulsing inside him, filling him up, pumping him full of come.

"Fuck," Brian gasps, collapsing on top of him. Justin sighs contentedly; he loves the weight of Brian, the warmth that kindles between their bodies and spreads. 

He thinks about apologising again but swallows the urge to say it out loud. Instead, he strokes his hand up and down Brian's back in a continual caress. Brian murmurs happily and nuzzles Justin's cheek. Then he pulls out, leaving Justin tangibly empty, and rolls to the side. Justin immediately eases closer to him. His desire to be close to Brian right now is so strong that it's almost painful. He curls up around Brian and plays with his hair, watching the strands glisten under the bedroom lighting as they slip through his fingers.

For a while, Justin is sure that it's all settled. That everything is said and done. They've fought, they've fucked, they've figured it out. He thinks back to what Brian said before and tries to commit it all to memory:  _I fucking love how things are; I love having you all to myself; I love that you're all mine._ All of them are so familiar - Justin has thought these things over and over, ever since they first agreed to this new arrangement.

He's a little startled when Brian, mind-reader extraordinaire, says, "I know this is new... relatively speaking. But if I wasn't happy, I'd say so."

Justin nods. Brian is visibly dissatisfied with this response; he frowns and nudges him, prompting, "You know that, right?"

"I know," Justin promises. 

"So what was worrying you?"

He stares at the sheets, rumpled beneath them, and wonders if he should confess. He knows that Brian, of all people, would understand, but it's a truth that he's still struggling to admit to. But if not Brian, then who? If not now, when?

Justin hangs his head slightly and says, "I'm not a teenager anymore."

"Obviously," Brian remarks, sounding amused.

"Yeah, obviously," Justin mutters, feeling dejected. "I get older and fatter every year. Every month, even."

He decides not to admit that lately it feels like every day. That would mean saying it out loud, which would make it real, which he's been trying to avoid. 

"Since when do you feel that way?"

"Since I passed thirty and started looking like this." Justin grimaces and pinches the slight layer of fat around his stomach demonstratively. Brian nudges his hand away and strokes the flesh, which has blossomed pink from the pinch. Justin looks away and murmurs, "I don't exactly look the way I used to."

"No, you don't." Brian climbs on top of him, so that their bodies are pressed flush together. He cradles Justin's head in his hands, kisses him, and says tenderly, "You look like the person that I've spent almost twenty years of my life with."

That knocks the breath right out of Justin. He stares at Brian, his heart swelling in his chest, and almost wants to cry. Brian's mouth quirks into a small smile, then he adds quietly, "You're beautiful. Always have been, always will be."

Justin struggles for breath as he processes those words, full of kindness and admiration most sincere. Brian kisses his cheek, his chin, his neck, over and over again, every last one singing with desire. His hands map Justin's body eagerly, excitedly, as though it's new territory to know, love, conquer. As Brian kisses the corner of his mouth, his hands grasping at Justin's hips, he growls, "Mine."

One tiny word; a miniscule string of four letters forming one syllable, and yet, it fills the room. It's flooded with lust and love, possessiveness and promise, but above all else, happiness. Joyful, elated, transcendent happiness.

The air returns to Justin's lungs.

He feels like he can breathe again.

**The End**


End file.
